He had breakfast with Professor Farooq in silence.
Not the awkward kind—
the heavy kind.
The kind where words existed but neither of them trusted them enough to let them out.
Zayan ate slowly, mechanically, as if his body remembered the act even if his mind was somewhere far away. The spoon clinked softly against the cup. Steam rose from the tea, warm and gentle, but he barely noticed. Professor Farooq watched him from across the table—not with curiosity, not with judgment—but with the quiet concern of someone who already knew there was a storm beneath that still surface.
After breakfast, Professor Farooq stood, adjusted his coat, and told Zayan he had to leave for the university.
"You stay home today," he said gently. "Rest."
Zayan nodded.
As if rest was something he knew how to do.
Professor Farooq hesitated for a second before leaving, then added that they would go shopping later—new clothes, books, everything Zayan would need so he could attend university with him from tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
The word echoed strangely in Zayan's head.
Something about it felt unreal. Fragile. Like glass.
When the door closed behind Professor Farooq, the house fell into a silence so deep it almost rang. Zayan stood there for a moment, listening—not to sounds, but to the absence of them.
No shouting.
No accusations.
No reminders of what he had failed to be.
He watched Professor Farooq leave through the window until he disappeared from sight. Only then did Zayan turn and walk back to the room that had been given to him.
He sat down on the bed.
And just… stayed there.
His body felt strange. Not tense. Not numb. Something in between—like a wound that had stopped bleeding but hadn't healed. His chest rose and fell slowly, as if it was relearning how to breathe without fear chasing every inhale.
His soul—if it could still be called that—felt torn.
But not collapsing.
Rebuilding.
Painfully.
He stared at the white wall in front of him. It was empty. Blank. Untouched. And somehow, that frightened him more than walls filled with memories. Because empty space gave his mind too much room.
Thoughts crept in quietly.
Not screaming.
Not attacking.
Just sitting beside him.
He thought about how long it had been since he had lived anywhere without feeling like a burden. How long it had been since someone offered him something without demanding anything in return.
It felt like something inside him—something long broken—was slowly being stitched back together.
Clumsily.
Carefully.
Like a broken toy repaired with trembling hands.
He didn't cry.
He didn't smile either.
He just sat there, upright on the bed, staring at the wall as if it might suddenly explain everything he had survived.
Minutes passed.
Or hours.
Time didn't matter anymore.
Then—
A knock.
Sharp. Real.
Zayan's body stiffened instantly.
His heart jumped, muscles tightening, instincts flaring as if danger had arrived. For a split second, he was no longer in Professor Farooq's house. He was back in places where knocks meant trouble. Where voices meant blame.
Another knock followed.
"Hello? Mr. Zayan?" a voice called out softly.
It wasn't harsh.
That confused him.
"May I come in?"
Zayan swallowed hard. His throat felt dry.
"Yes," he said quietly.
The door opened slowly.
A man stood there—middle-aged, polite, careful with his movements. He introduced himself as the caretaker of the house. His voice was respectful, distant, as if he sensed that Zayan was made of something fragile.
He explained that Professor Farooq had asked him to check if Zayan needed anything—food, water, medicine. Anything at all.
Zayan shook his head.
"No," he replied. "I'm fine."
The words felt strange in his mouth.
Fine.
The caretaker nodded, not pushing, not questioning. Before leaving, he paused.
"If you need anything," he said gently, "just call."
The door closed again.
Silence returned.
But it didn't feel as suffocating this time.
Zayan exhaled slowly and leaned back against the wall. His head rested against it, eyes closing for just a moment.
He didn't know what scared him more—
The pain he had lived with for so long
or the quiet that was slowly replacing it.
Because if this peace stayed…
Then it meant he had truly lost everything he onced called home.
And somehow that realization hurt deeper than abandonment ever had.
Zayan said quietly that he didn't need anything.
His voice was polite. Controlled. Almost rehearsed.
The servant smiled faintly and replied that if he needed anything later, he could just call. Zayan nodded once, a small movement, as if even that required effort. The servant left, the door closing softly behind him.
The sound lingered.
Zayan stood there for a long moment after the footsteps faded, staring at the door like it might suddenly reopen and demand something from him. It didn't.
Slowly, he moved toward the window.
Outside, the world was alive.
A group of students passed by on the street, laughing loudly, backpacks slung carelessly over their shoulders. They pushed each other, joked, spoke about classes, exams, futures—as if none of those words carried weight. As if tomorrow was promised. As if home was something you could return to without fear.
Zayan watched them in silence.
Something twisted painfully in his chest.
He imagined himself among them—walking freely, talking without measuring every word, laughing without feeling guilty for it. The image felt foreign, like a life that belonged to someone else. Someone who hadn't been hollowed out from the inside.
He wanted to go out.
The urge came suddenly, sharp and desperate. To just step outside. To feel air that wasn't trapped inside walls. To blend into people who didn't know him, didn't expect anything from him.
But fear held him still.
Fear always won.
Professor Farooq had asked him to stay home, and Zayan obeyed—not out of respect, but because disobedience still felt dangerous. Staying felt safer than choosing. Remaining invisible had become second nature.
So he stayed.
Hours passed slowly, dragging themselves forward like wounded animals. The house remained quiet, but his mind wasn't. Thoughts crept in—uninvited, unrelenting. Memories pressed against the edges of his consciousness, threatening to spill over if he let his guard down.
He didn't lie down.
He didn't sleep.
He just existed.
Later, the servant returned with lunch. The smell of food filled the room, warm and inviting, but Zayan barely reacted. He ate because his body needed it, not because he wanted it. Every bite felt heavy, like swallowing obligation instead of nourishment.
The servant told him to be ready—Professor Farooq would return any minute.
Zayan nodded again.
After eating, he forced himself to change his clothes. His movements were slow, almost clumsy, like he wasn't fully present in his body. When he looked at his reflection, he barely recognized the person staring back. The eyes were dull. Watchful. Too old for his age.
He went downstairs and waited.
When Professor Farooq finally arrived, Zayan straightened instinctively. They didn't speak much. Words weren't necessary. Soon, they were in the car, the city unfolding around them as they drove.
Zayan watched everything pass by through the window.
People. Shops. Life.
At the mall, the noise hit him hard—voices overlapping, footsteps echoing, lights too bright. His chest tightened, breath growing shallow, but he stayed silent. Professor Farooq bought him clothes, necessities, things Zayan had never allowed himself to want.
Each item felt undeserved.
At the bookstore, shelves towered over him, heavy with knowledge, with futures written in ink. Professor Farooq picked out books for him to study, speaking calmly about courses and classes.
Zayan listened.
But deep inside, a darker thought whispered:
What if this, too, disappears?
Because every place that had ever felt safe eventually vanished.
And somewhere in that crowded mall, surrounded by people and possibilities, Zayan realized something terrifying—
He wasn't scared of being alone anymore.
He was scared of hoping.